


cry softly

by zarahjoyce



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Modern AU, Oops, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 18:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20122810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahjoyce/pseuds/zarahjoyce
Summary: "You're her?" he asks, his voice gruff, looking everywherebutat her.So much for being a ladies' man."Yes," she breathes, placing a hand on his arm and moving it up,up,"and no. I can bewhoeveryou want me to be for tonight, though." Sansa looks at him from under her lashes and smiles again, before moving behind him under the guise of massaging his shoulders.I can even be the one who ends you, Targaryen.





	cry softly

**Author's Note:**

> for the Jonsa Drabble Event Day 2 (5th August): Anniversaries/Firsts

Rickon should have been a year older today, Sansa thinks to herself, watching warily as the elevator door opens, and out steps--  
  
_\--him._  
  
She rises to meet him halfway. Forcing herself to act as if meeting men she barely knew is _normal_, Sansa gives him her most seductive smile - and is rewarded for her efforts with a glance haphazardly thrown her direction.  
  
"You're her?" he asks, his voice gruff, looking everywhere _but _at her.   
  
So much for being a ladies' man.  
  
"Yes," she breathes, placing a hand on his arm and moving it up, _up_, "and no. I can be _whoever _you want me to be for tonight, though." Sansa looks at him from under her lashes and smiles again, before moving behind him under the guise of massaging his shoulders.   
  
_I can even be the one who ends you, Targaryen._  
  
"You're so _tense_," she sighs against his skin. From her position she pops open the button of his shirt, then another, playing a role she despises with all her being. "But so handsome - like a prince."  
  
He grunts. "Don't get too comfortable," Targaryen says, leaning into her touch despite his words. "You won't stay long."  
  
"Aw," she coos. "Aren't you even interested to know what I can offer? What I can--" She moves her lips closer to his ear and feels him shiver in response, "--_do _to you?"  
  
Targaryen chuckles, stoking the anger deep in her bones.   
  
Oh _gods _how she wants to-- she wants to just--  
  
"You all say that," he tells her. "But none of the women Tyrell's sent has _ever _made me happy." He reaches behind him to grab her ass and squeezes it - hard. "I wonder if you'll end up disappointing me, too."  
  
Margaery had said that he's moody as fuck, hard to please, unpredictable. Margaery had told her to be careful, or else she won't return to them _alive_.  
  
Standing behind the man now, Sansa finds herself unable to care.  
  
This is her one chance.   
  
Her one fucking chance to execute her plans.  
  
If she finally kills the man who's murdered her brother, then everything will be--   
  
\--they'll be _worth it._  
  
She splays one hand on his chest, humming appreciatively, the other reaching for the knife hidden in her stocking. Sansa plants a kiss on the side of his neck. "Why don't we find out, hmm?"   
  
One moment she's moving to thrust the knife into his back - the place where it'll neatly slide between flesh and bone to find its home in his heart.  
  
The next he's turning and disarming her, pushing her to the floor and--  
  
_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_  
  
Sansa tries to wiggle free from under him, but he's dead weight on top of her - unmoving, unyielding.  
  
She is, quite honestly, _fucked_.  
  
"Who are you?" Targaryen demands, holding her wrists on top of her head. When she keeps trying to fight him off her, he shifts his position so that he's holding her wrists with one hand, the other hovering menacingly around her neck as he snarls, "_Don't _make me ask you again."  
  
"_Fuck you,_ Targaryen," she spits at him. _What a sick fuck_, Sansa thinks, not wanting to dwell about how horrible her death will be tonight - now that she's fucking caught.   
  
He shakes his head. "You're too young. You're not-- you can't be one of--"   
  
What is he even saying? "If you're going to kill me then--"  
  
"Who do you work for?"  
  
"I have nothing to say to you--"  
  
He tightens his hold on her wrists. "_Why _do you want him dead?"  
  
She blinks, one word resounding in her head far louder than it _should_.   
  
"Him?" she repeats, numbness beginning to spread to her limbs which can be attributed to his hold on her and the fact that she's--  
  
Sansa's studied every available image of Aegon Targaryen's face that, staring at him _this close_ she's slowly realizing--   
  
No.  
  
_Shit, no._  
  
Fuck--   
  
"You're not him," she whispers, every ounce of fight in her body disappearing just.

Like.

_That_.  
  
Something close to pity crosses his expression just then.  
  
"No," he says gravely, his hold on her loosening ever so slightly. "I'm not." 


End file.
